


Hoth is Cold

by DistantStorm



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Things that may or may not have happened on Ice Moons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: Hoth is cold, but Kallus is warm.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 19
Kudos: 154





	Hoth is Cold

**Author's Note:**

> For all the wonderful people on the Kalluzeb server who create such great content for this ship and are uplifting, inspiring, and SO DAMN TALENTED.

Hoth is cold.

It's the kind of thing people say and intrinsically know, like X-wings are fast, or Tatooine is hot, or the Empire is evil. It's a fact.

It does not make existing or operating there any easier.

Alexsandr Kallus is no stranger to cold. He once had ice in his veins and a frost-encased heart. The ex-Imp in him says this changes nothing. They have their orders, their mission to oversee. The ISB agent in him laughs at these young rebels, shivering. They wouldn't have made it two days into the training he received.

But the Rebel, the man that he is with his defrosted heart and red blood in his veins who is all those things he used to be but more than them because he listened when he was told to question everything, that part of him feels for them. Most of them are children. Most had never left their home planet. Most of their pilots were field trained, make-it-or-die-trying. Their soldiers? Farm hands. Barely grown children, lying about their age. Tired older people who didn't want to lose another family member to someone else's infernal power grab.

Alexsandr Kallus is still the sum of his parts. A Rebel, yes, but also ex-ISB and former Imperial. He is not the only one. But like all others who had done their time, those parts of him are glaringly obvious.

Which is why the pilot who can't keep her hands from shaking stares up at him in shock when he puts a blanket around her shoulders. There is distrust he cannot erase in her eyes. He does not seek her thanks, and he does not linger. She wouldn't take his advice if he offered it, but this much, he can do.

She is from a desert world, if he remembers correctly. She had worked in a shop, as a seamstress, learning the trade from her fathers. And then came the Empire.

It went on and on, as if it had been like this forever.

"Y'know," An easy-going volce - half smug, half careworn - chimes just behind his left shoulder, "The quartermaster keeps track of how many blankets you conveniently... misplace. They will stop giving you more, sooner rather than later."

"The girl's teeth were chattering, Hera."

One questioning eyebrow rises, but her lips curved in a smile."I'm teasing. Though the quartermaster seems pretty serious," She tells him. "I'm just worried. If command sends Zeb off-planet on a mission, I don't want you to freeze to death."

"I beg your pardon?!" He blurts, scandalized.

Hera puts her hands on her hips, which looks odd with her verdant hands covered in brown gloves. Both eyebrows rise this time, and if he strains his hearing, he could probably hear Jarrus' ghost mocking the words back at him. "Really?" She asks, deadpan. "You thought _I_ didn't know?"

"I-" He exhales, deflating a little. "I hadn't considered it."

Her hand feels like a brand on his shoulder, but his spine felt like it was made of ice, rigid and stiff, about to crumble. She squeezes gently. "Just don't forget to take care of yourself," She reminds, gentler still. "Zeb isn't the only one who worries about you."

His flush has nothing to do with temperature, his cheeks warm and red, visible above his facial hair. He sputters to come up with a response, because this is Spectre-2, Phoenix leader, Garazeb's very protective, very fierce family member. He should say something gracious, thanking her. He should be formal, because Hera is not just Hera, she's _General Syndulla_. 

"It doesn't bother you?"

She makes a face, something scrunched that's infinitely more her age than the stoic pensive look she tends to wear by default these days. "Are you kriffing kidding me?" She pats his arm again, motheringly. "Kallus, despite the fact that I can't feel my lekku, I realize the situation is rather romantic, considering." She waggles her eyebrows in a move that again reminds Kallus of the late Jarrus, but then again there's always something playful about Hera, trapped just beneath the surface. "Zeb never told us about Bahryn, and I told the kids never to ask," She adds the last bit to sweeten the pot, but the gleam in her eyes is amused, not insistent. "But Kanan and I always speculated wildly."

"General Syndulla!" He says, puffed up in mock outrage, though he's relatively certain he may die of embarrassment. "We were enemies!"

"Have you ever read a holonovel, Captain Kallus?"

"My _leg_ was broken!" Hera leans forward expectantly, only for Kallus to shake his head. "Oh no," He says, pointing a wagging finger at her as she crosses her arms, smirking. "I see what you're doing. You can continue to speculate about things that I assure you _did not happen_ , I am not giving you any more details."

"You are so not proving your case," She teases, stepping back. "But I suppose I'll let you go. I have a briefing in half an hour that I should probably be prepared for." 

He nods, trying and failing to hide his relief. "I also have duties to see to," He supposes ambiguously, carefully brushing errant strands of hair from his face. That slight bit of nervousness is back, curling in his belly.

If Hera knows he isn't being entirely truthful, she doesn't call his bluff. "Oh, stop looking at me like I kicked your tooka," She says. "Hurt him and the Empire will be the least of your problems, but," She shrugs the threat off like its meaning wasn't literal, "I'm happy for the both of you."

She leaves without waiting for him to speak. It's a good thing, too, since his mouth opens and closes several times before he can find the connection between his mouth and his brain. Taking a moment to right himself in the blissfully empty white corridor, Kallus gathers his bearings and continues onward. He'd had the night shift. It was morning, and that meant it was time to sleep. He’d taken to keeping a blanket on his person in case it was cold. Most of the less insulated beings on Echo Base tended to do anything to conserve and regulate body heat.

It was a useful tool, if one needed it. Kallus did not.

The door to their shared quarters is opened quietly, though the hinges lurch in protest. He doesn’t force it to open more than he needs to, and slides inside through the crack he creates. It’s quiet inside, except for the dull chatter of static of the emergency channel from the wrist comm sitting on the table beside the bed and the even breaths of Kallus’s partner, already asleep on the single-occupant bed.

The bed isn’t any happier about being used than the door was, but it holds when Kallus perches on the edge to toe his boots off. Taking up the majority of the space, Zeb doesn’t budge, but when Kallus’ body heat begins to leech up against him he hums, rolling to the side and opening his arms, all subconscious thought. He never remembers, Kallus knows. He’s asked. He shucks his boots and jacket and doesn’t bother with the rest. They won’t have more than a few hours before they’re back in the fight. 

A large arm bars itself over his chest, and prehensile feet curl around his sock-clad ones. He exhales to the feel of a slack mouth against the back of his neck and an overwhelming feeling of contentment and security. 

Hoth is cold, but Kallus is warm.


End file.
